by Eric Flint
Either that, or the woman was a crazed, cold-blooded killer.
Could one be crazed and cold-blooded at the same time? Charlotte wasn’t sure.
She’d have to find out. But how would you find out such a thing?
She burst into a half-choked laugh, then. Which was even more mortifying than the tears.
Of course. She’d ask Madame Duchesne. She would know.
* * *
Chapter 14
By the time Alexander reached Ghlaktora, the international incident he feared had already happened. Drezhner—the monumental ass!—had managed to get himself killed in the process of infuriating the local authorities.
And had accomplished nothing. No, worse. If Luff or anyone in his party had been Savinkov, as unlikely as that was, the assassin was now beyond reach.
Beyond Alexander’s reach, certainly, or that of any Russian official on Mars. It was conceivable that Cecil Rhodes could bring enough pressure to bear on whichever petty native potentate ruled Ghlaktora to get them to relinquish a might-be-Savinkov, but would he? Probably not. His own reaction, once he heard of Drezhner’s conduct, was far more likely to be hostile to Russians than to Martians. All the more so since the likelihood that Savinkov—no, a Savinkov substitute; Savinkov himself was apparently dead—was actually on Mars was vanishingly small. Alexander was now almost certain that the whole affair had been a ruse on the part of the Esers. Probably to distract everyone while they plotted a strike at some target in Russia.
And besides, even if Rhodes agreed to coerce the local nawab into removing his protection of maybe-Savinkov-substitute, it probably still wouldn’t do any good. From what Alexander had been able to learn about Ghlaktora and the Protei Locus region, it was riddled with underground catacombs and passageways. In the unlikely event there was a maybe-Savinkov-substitute in the city, he’d certainly have the skills to find shelter there.
Judging from what Alexander had heard, it would take an army to search that labyrinth. He had no army at his disposal. Neither did Prince Vorontsov.
For that matter, neither did Cecil Rhodes. The English imperialist maintained his power on the red planet in the same manner he’d established it in the first place. He’d used what you might call the Mongol Method—a ruthless, even savage, application of force and violence precisely because he didn’t have a huge army of soldiers and bureaucrats to rule by direct administration.
The Martian authorities were afraid of him, certainly. But that sort of fear did not lend itself to launching a systematic search of gigantic labyrinths. How was Rhodes to know if they carried out such a search effectively, since he’d have no way of overseeing them? If they did it at all, they’d do it in a slack and lackadaisical manner.
No, best to just let the whole unsavory affair die a natural death. Had Ghlaktora’s authorities tried to keep Kapral Baranovsky under arrest, things would have taken a nasty turn. But they were perfectly willing to turn him over to Alexander’s keeping, once he arrived. They even gave the soldier his rifle back, although they kept the ammunition.
No matter. Kapral Baranovsky was even less inclined than Alexander to stay in Ghlaktora and cause any further trouble.
“I was just assigned to guard the embassy at Crenex,” the young corporal said plaintively. “Drezhner made me come with him. He wanted to bring a whole squad of the embassy’s guards, but Count Shuvalov wouldn’t let him have anyone but me.”
He looked aggrieved. “Because I was the youngest, I think.”
The youngest—and clearly the least useful, once that imbecile Drezhner forced matters to gunplay.
The one surprising thing Alexander learned was that Drezhner had been killed by the Duchesne woman.
“She terrified me,” Baranovsky confessed. “When she turned her gun on me after—after Drezhner died—I was sure she was going to kill me as well. Her eyes … They were empty. Just like a snake’s.”
Alexander wondered …
But it made no sense. If Duchesne were an SRP terrorist, she’d surely have killed Baranovsky along with Drezhner in order to silence any witness who could bring the tale back to the Okhrana. Why let him live? Given the circumstances, no one would have blamed her if she’d gunned down the corporal as well. He’d come with Drezhner, armed; he was another threat; he was dealt with.
Case closed.
* * *
The fluybakh took them back to Mooktar. From there, within a day or two, they’d be able to find an airship which would fly them to Coprates or Tryddoc Aru. Mooktar was not large enough to have regular service to any other Martian city, but there were a number of small dirigibles that crisscrossed the planet, providing whoever needed it with passage wherever they wanted to go. For a price, of course—usually a steep one, if the customers were human.
Alexander didn’t care. He still had sufficient funds and, by now, all he wanted was to leave the miserable planet altogether and return to Paris.
He adored Paris. He couldn’t wait to get back.
* * *
Everyone else had settled in for the night. Adrian had fallen asleep hours before. Only Charlotte and her father remained awake, along with Mr. and Mrs. Shankar, sharing the domicile’s equivalent of a living room with Madame Duchesne.
“Vera …” Edward Luff seemed uncertain of what to say. “This … ah … Savinkov whom Drezhner was raving about …”
“Gavril Savinkov does not exist,” said Madame Duchesne. “He never did. He’s a figment of the Russian secret police’s imagination.”
She smiled, thinly. “Admittedly, we did everything in our power to give the Okhrana that illusion—and then to maintain it.”
Charlotte’s father cleared his throat. “‘We’ being …”
“The Socialist-Revolutionary Party’s Combat Organization. Of which I am, and have been for many years, a member.” She wiggled her fingers in a familiar gesture. “Well, not that. The SRP was only formed recently. It came mostly out of the Northern Union of Socialist Revolutionaries and the Workers’ Party of Political Liberation of Russia, which were formed in the 1890s. I was one of the Workers’ Party’s cadres. Our leaders were—still are, along with Victor Chernov—Catherine Breshkovsky and Grigory Gershuni. But the armed struggle goes back much farther than that, to the days of the Narodnaya Volya.”
“Ah. Yes. The ‘People’s Will’ organization. I’d heard of them. Of Catherine Breshkovsky also.” Edward Luff was still fumbling. “Vera … Ah. When did you …”
“After my brother came back from Siberian exile. He’d been ruined by the experience. One of my brothers, rather. The younger one had already died in the Tsar’s prisons. He’d been beaten to death.”
Her expression was calm; her tone of voice, cold.
“Duchesne is an invented name,” she continued. “I was indeed married, but my husband’s name was Vladimir Natanson. He was Jewish, one of the founders of the Circle of Tchaikovsky, Land and Liberty. He also died in prison. From disease, in his case.”
Her face was mask-like again. Moved by a sudden, powerful impulse, Charlotte rose from her seat and went over to sit next to Madame Duchesne—no, Madame Natanson, it now seemed.
She decided she would call her Madame Vera from now on. It seemed less confusing.
She took the older woman’s hand in her own. Or maybe she would just call her Vera.
Edward Luff stared at his daughter, for a moment. Then, sighed and ran fingers through his hair.
“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to catch up. So, why did you come to Mars then, Vera? I assume it was not a simple desire to sightsee.”
She chuckled. “Hardly. I’m afraid I’m not actually a rich widow. Widow, yes; well-to-do, no. I’ve been traveling on the Party’s funds. On Party business.”
His face looked a bit drawn. “And that business is …”
Again, she chuckled. The sound had a harsh ring to it, this time. “Poor Edward! No, I am not here to shoot down some Tsarist official. Not that the stinking bastard wouldn’t deserve it.
My mission is of a very different nature.”
“And—if I might ask—that mission is …?”
Mr. Shankar cleared his throat. “Actually, she’s here to see me, Edward. Me and Sumati.”
Luff stared at him. “You?”
Shankar made a face. “Please, Edward—don’t look quite so shocked. I assure you that Russia is not the only land where the professions of scholar and political activist get combined.”
Charlotte’s father was still staring at him. The Hindu’s expression seemed to harden somewhat.
“Give it a few years under the new dispensation brought by Cecil Rhodes and his thugs, Edward. You may come to understand what it means to be an Indian under English rule.”
His wife spoke. “A rule which is now certain to be much harsher, given Rhodes’ ascendancy. And it is already not pleasant, for us.”
Charlotte grasped the heart of the issue before her father did. She would have clapped her hands except one of them was still being gripped in Vera’s.
“Oh, I see! You’re here to forge a conspiratorial alliance between Russian and Indian revolutionaries.” Her brother would have been thrilled, if he hadn’t been asleep. He adored the thought of conspiracies.
But her mind was racing ahead, as more things fell into place. “And do it on Mars, where you’ll be beyond the reach of either the Russian or English police agencies.” She pursed her lips. “At least, so long as the Martian authorities look the other way.”
Vera’s chuckle, this time, was quite rich and full of humor. “‘Look the other way!’ My dear Charlotte, some of those Martian authorities—including those who oversee all the cities of Protei Locus—have joined the conspiracy themselves. They have no love for Rhodes either.”
“Really?”
“Really?” echoed her father.
“Yes,” said Sumati Shankar. “It was one of them—our supposed ‘guide’ Joedheg, as a matter of fact—who first approached us. You may remember that our employer, the Nizam of Hyderabad, visited Mars himself last year. That began the process. The Nizam spoke to us, we communicated with Vera—whom we’ve known for years, at first through her husband Vladimir—and she discussed the matter with Grigory Gershuni, the head of the SRP’s Combat Organization.”
“You need to understand the stakes involved for us,” said Vera. “With Rhodes’ ascendancy in Britain, all the major powers of Europe except France are now controlled by reactionaries, and France is irrelevant because of the chaos of its political affairs. Only the United States remains as a bastion of democracy, and they are across the Atlantic and preoccupied with their own affairs. The pressure on us—on all democratic and revolutionary movements and parties—in Asia and Africa as much as in Europe—is becoming fiercer all the time. The possibility of creating here on Mars a political fortress—a refuge, if you will; a safe haven—which can shield us while we rebuild our strength …”
“That is the heart of it,” said Mr. Shankar. “That is why we came here.”
Vera spread her hands. “And here we are. And now we invite you to join us.”
Her father’s eyes widened. “Me?”
“Why not, Edward?” said Mr. Shankar. “You plan to be here for years, do you not? By the time you’d have been ready to return to Earth—trust me on this matter—you’ll have found England a very different place than the one you know. And by then, there will be Englishmen in our ranks as well.”
“What Englishmen?”
“From the military, to start. Have you heard of ‘redcoats’?”
Her father rubbed his jaw. “Yes. I have.”
So had Charlotte. There were reputed to be elements in the British military, especially the Navy—officers and enlisted men both—who were disaffected with the new regime put in place by Cecil Rhodes and his people. The so-called “blackcoats,” named after the color of the new uniforms.
There was silence for a while. Then her father said: “I’ll need to think about it.”
“Yes, of course.”
“In the meantime …” He glanced at the handclasp between Charlotte and Vera. “I must thank you for saving my son, Madame Natanson. And me. And perhaps my daughter as well.”
“Oh, please, Edward. I’m still Vera. Not really so different from the one you thought you knew, either.”
He smiled at her. “Vera, then.”
She smiled back.
Charlotte squeezed her hand. Vera squeezed back.
Adrian awoke then, in the adjoining room. “Where is everyone?” he cried out, plaintively. “I need some help!”
Thereby ruining the moment. It was so exasperating.
* * *
Chapter 15
As he waited in the aerodrome’s guest facilities for the Blenheim to land, Alexander spotted someone familiar. It was the portly face and figure of the Luff governess. What was her name? Mrs. Smith, wasn’t it? The one who’d come down ill just at the end of the voyage to Mars.
She seemed rather lost. Partly out of natural sympathy and partly out of curiosity, Alexander approached her.
“May I be of help, Mrs. Smith?”
She stared at up at him with blank eyes. Alexander’s impression on the voyage had been that the woman was not especially intelligent. That assessment was strengthened by the woman’s dull, confused expression.
“I’m Alexander Evalenko. You may remember me from the voyage. I was also on the Agincourt.”
That seemed to register. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I remember you now.”
She looked around, clutching her large valise as if it were a life vest. “Do you … Mr. Valenkin, is it? Do you know where I could catch the airship to Ghlaktora? I need to rejoin my employer. I was told I should look for something called a ‘float back.’ Something like that.”
“A fluybakh.” He turned and pointed toward a distant door in the facilities. “You need to go through there, Mrs. Smith. You’ll find a fluybakh available on the grounds beyond. Several of them, most likely.”
He decided not to mention that she’d find riding on one of the rather flimsy airships quite a bit more … ah, exciting, than she was perhaps expecting.
As she started to move in that direction, Alexander asked her, “Are you feeling better now?”
She turned back, grimacing. “Oh, yes. It was a miserable week or so, but after that everything was fine.”
“What was it, do you know? I was told several other people on the ship came down with the same ailment.”
Now, she looked indignant. “They never found out! Would you believe, the silly doctor they had told me he thought I might have been poisoned. Poisoned! Who would do a thing like that to someone like me? It’s ridiculous! And he was an English doctor, too. Said he was, anyway. But you have to wonder, coming up with preposterous notions like that.”
And off she went, stumping forward vigorously if not gracefully. As a mode of locomotion on Mars, with its low gravity, “stumping” had its drawbacks.
Alexander stared after her.
Poisoned …
His mind began to race. What if the Duchesne woman was an SRP agent with a long-term mission here on Mars? He’d been thinking simply in terms of the usual assassination attempt. Poisoning Mrs. Smith—some sort of mild, non-fatal substance; Alexander could think of two offhand that might have served the purpose—would provide Duchesne with the perfect excuse to join the Luff party after the end of the voyage. That was why Alexander himself had dismissed Drezhner’s suspicions.
Then …
That would also explain why Duchesne hadn’t killed Kapral Baranovsky along with Drezhner. If her mission required remaining on Mars for months, even years, she needed to remain close to the Luff family.
Alexander closed his eyes, picturing the scene as it had been described to him by the young corporal.
Here, Drezhner. There, Duchesne. Firing—one, two; then again, one, two; four shots in all. Three of those shots had been fatal. Even the fourth might have been.
Not one shot had misse
d its mark. The signs of a skilled and experienced killer.
Over there, watching, was the Charlotte girl. How old was she? Fourteen? Fifteen?
She’d have been shocked by Duchesne’s actions. Yet, so far …
The woman had just been defending the girl’s father and brother. Almost anything could be forgiven—even forgotten, in time—under those circumstances.
But if Duchesne had gone further, had gone on to slaughter a young soldier too confused and frightened to pose a threat …
Just to silence an inconvenient witness …
No. The girl would never have forgotten that. She’d never have been able to regain her trust in Duchesne. As time went by, the situation would become unmanageable.
Alexander tried to imagine what sort of person could be so calculating, so cold-blooded, as to gauge all that and come to the right decision in the middle of deadly gunfire. Decide instantly, even as he—she—fired shot after unerring shot.
Savinkov. Only an assassin of that caliber could do such a thing.
He began to rise. And then …
Sat back down.
This was all speculation. Perhaps wild speculation. Even if he brought the matter to Rachkovsky’s attention, and Rachkovsky brought it to Semiakin’s, they’d probably decide the notion was preposterous. Alexander’s reputation, already bruised by this mess, would be damaged still further.
Worse still, what if they decided the notion was correct?
There’d be no way to apprehend Savinkov, no way to track him—her—down. Not here, not on Mars. All that could be done would be to maintain a more vigilant guard on Prince Vorontsov. Which duty …
Would surely fall to Alexander Evalenko himself.
Stuck here on Mars. For months. Years. With no company but that of Cossacks.
Which is to say, the world’s premier cavalrymen.
No.
Clearly, it was nothing but a wild surmise on his part. A silly notion, really. Why would the SRP waste the talents of someone like Savinkov—for months; even years—simply to kill a prince? Russia had lots of princes.
